


Without Thought

by martyrpipedreams



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, fluff?, sidestep is trying his best okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martyrpipedreams/pseuds/martyrpipedreams
Summary: Without thought, you seemed to fall even deeper in love.
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), Ricardo Ortega/Sidestep
Kudos: 18





	Without Thought

There's a photo tucked away in a drawer somewhere, all creased corners and burnt edges - an abandoned attempt to purge memories, to throw them in the fire and forget them in their entirety. It's underneath a pile of shirts that you pulled straight off the clearance shelf of a military surplus store and is guarded by a handgun: that's there to stave off the paranoia that sets in at night.

You were too weak to get rid of it, your hands digging through hot ash before it disappeared like everything else that tied you to who you were before. You kept it, afterwards; as a reminder. As a comfort. 

It's a nice photo. One of you and Ortega from before, sitting at tía Elena's kitchen table with beers in hand. Sun spilled through the thin, cream colored curtains and Ortega was grinning at something, the familiar smug grin that he still wore even now - the only difference between now and then is the lack of the haunted gleam that exists in the deep brown of his eyes that you sometimes get glimpses of. 

It's disconcerting to see yourself with so little layers, actually. Short sleeves, bare arms barren of the tattoos you'd already tried carving from your skin more than once, barren of many of the scars that reside there now. Some from your own destructive tendencies and others from your sidestep days. You know those scars like the back of your hand - Ortega does too. 

You miss those days, when Ortega would invite you to his mother's and she'd ask you question after question - you never seemed to mind just how many of them dug into territory you never liked talking about. Those questions sounded like greetings now. You certainly have much more to hide today than you did then. She was a sweet woman though, smelled like spice and flour, warm like home when she hugged you. That's what that place was, you suppose. Home. The notion was foreign yet welcome: you were too used to sleeping on couches and eating cold dinners in an empty living room that felt more suited for the cold and dead. 

You weren’t far from it. 

Though, right now, each bite brought another choked swallow. Because you weren't eating the homemade food tia Elena always made, you were sitting in Ortega's living room eating Chinese takeout with chopsticks you didn't exactly know how to hold correctly and Ortega was doing the same with so much more ease, his shoulder pressed so close to yours that it was easy to get lost in the static that was his mind. 

Against that electric buzz you were aware that your nerves were fraying. The TV was playing some movie that Ortega had convinced you to watch and even though you weren't paying attention, you knew it was good. Ortega gestured for you to try a bite of his food and you did, without thought. 

Domestic. That's how you felt and, while not the same warmth of tía Elena's house, you were enveloped in the hazy glow of comfort. 

Annoying, you think, smiling at how his hair looks more like a birds nest than anything; messy and sticking up in directions it normally didn’t. You reached out, mind on auto-pilot, and combed your fingers through it, fingers caught in tangles. He looked at you, a question in his eyes and a soft smile on his face - not like the smile he used for the cameras, this was softer, not so sharp around the edges but still charming all the same. 

He presses against you, body like a space heater, soft and scarred and warm, and you move closer - jagged and cold. 

"Penny for your thoughts,” he asked lazily, head lolling against the back of the couch as he finished eating. You sat your food aside too, appetite never there. 

You hummed, “More like a quarter.” He laughed and you couldn’t help but grin in return. 

So, so soft. No sharp edges, no hurtful words. It was nice. And terrifying. A yawn from your right drew your attention away from the creeping thoughts. “Tired?” It was late, nearly midnight from the looks of it. 

“A little,” he lied, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Don’t fall asleep while I’m here.” 

“I’m just resting my eyes.” 

You shook your head and stood up from the couch, bones cracking. Ortega’s eyes snapped open and he reached out for your arm. “I’m going home so you can sleep,” you said through a chuckle, attempting to step away. 

He pulls you back, hands wrapping around your waist as he pulls you down onto the couch.. “Nope,” he began, popping the ‘p’, “sleep here.” You throw yourself against the static and frown. 

“Ortega-” He cuts you off.

“I know, I know, you don’t like to stay here but just for a while. You can leave when I fall asleep.” He smiles his camera smile. “Please?”

You can feel a headache building in the space behind your eyes. It makes your teeth throb. You don’t know if you can handle a migraine right now. Maybe you’d go home and chase the throbbing pain away with a bottle of whiskey or you’d stay here. It’s tempting and you never were good at denying temptations. 

“Just a little while,” you say, trying your best not to let the hesitance in your voice show. It doesn’t work of course, not with Ortega.   
“Besides,” he says, grinning and splaying himself out on the couch, head in your lap like you had magically become a pillow, “as soon as you see my sleeping face, you’ll fall in love. I’m like an angel.” 

“You’re an idiot, is what you are,” you mend with a scoff, hand resting on the side of his face as you lean down for a kiss; soft and chaste, warm to the touch. He smiles when you pull away and somehow looks more smug than ever. “We both know you’re going to drool on me,” you say, if not to knock him down a peg or two. 

He pouts but there’s an undeniable shine in his eyes, like he’s seen something that you haven’t. This is more than you thought you’d have - albeit you won’t have it for much longer. The thought makes your chest ache and makes your hands feel clammy so instead, you think about Ortega. Ortega, laying here on your lap as if you were never dead, smiling up at you with all the warmth in the world yet still with diluted worry. 

He must have sensed your uneasiness in the way you were beginning to close up, mental walls so high that they looked intimidating, because he hummed and called your name. 

“One more kiss? A goodnight kiss perhaps?” 

And you obliged, without thought.


End file.
